Pa calls me dumber than rocks all the time, especially when he asks for my help, but also when he doesn't. He called me dumber than a rock when I was sitting at the kitchen table stirring my Ovaltine and Ma was right by us fixin' breakfast on the stove. "I didn't mean to spill it." I said, cause I didn't and then cause he made me real mad I also said, "My name is Ralph, not Dumber, not Than, and not Rocks, and then he said, "You're dumb like a fox," and Ma said afterward, patting me on the back real soft, real nice, "That means he thinks your smart, Ralph." Why doesn't he make up his mind?

Ma calls me stupid, but never to my face, only when she's on the phone with Gertie late at night and she thinks I'm fast asleep, but I'm not. Sometimes I just lay awake for no reason at all listening to night sounds, the owls hoot and the squirrels scurrying on the roof, wishing I was one of them instead of me, cause they don't use words; just screams, barks, hisses and coos, which are much easier to understand and less likely to maim.

It would make me smile if Ma could call Gertie when I do things right, like turning the compost, or stacking the wood, or shoveling the snow, but she doesn't. She only calls Gertie to tell her everything I want to forget and hearing it again makes me sad twice in one day. I didn't mean to kill Miss Sarah's kitten. I only squeezed it hard because it was the cutest thing I had ever seen I forgot for a minute how strong I am. And I didn't mean to look in Mr. & Mrs. Gimbel's bedroom window next door and see them both naked. I thought I was supposed to go help people when they moan or scream. Gertie lives so far away, I never get to see her face when Ma tells her about my mistakes. That's what she calls what I do, mistakes, and then she always says, "He's just too stupid to know better. He's really not a bad person."

So if I'm a good person, what's so bad about being stupid, or being dumb? As far as I know there are lots of really smart people, that do lots of really bad things, and not by mistake. On purpose. And as far as I know, I've never done anything bad on purpose, so why can't they just let me be just Ralph, instead of stupid Ralph or dumber than a rock Ralph. I've never met a fox, but if I do, maybe I'll ask him, "Are you really dumb or really smart, and does it matter?" Maybe he'll answer and maybe he won't.

Thoughts between my thighs sparking lightning bolts between my teeth

Plagues of wetness running hot lava floods down my legs

Drowning Noah in his safe-haven ark

Gums bruised, bleeding

Lips boxing-match swollen,

minced, split, broken

Flesh scorched raw with heat,

crawling with vessels burst violet and violent

Ache climbing,

my stairway to hell-cracked spine

Deadly chills curling my toes in phantom spasms of haunting

Muscle and sinew, rotting,

fatigued from exhausted exertion

Buried heavy in dirt-clogged graves

And all the while

my throat bleeds out heavy and piercing

Body of Christ.

I don’t get it...

You have to accept him so we can wash your sins away.

But I haven’t done anything.

It doesn’t matter. You were born this way.

I thought I was baptized.

Body of Christ.

Well, you were.

I thought that washed my sin away.

Please don’t argue. You get to wear that pretty dress.

I do like the dress...

Body of Christ.

Body of Christ.

Body of Christ.

I don’t want the wine.

It’s not wine. It’s the blood of Christ.

How is drinking wine going to make me less evil?

It’s not wine...

Body of Christ.

Well drinking blood seems pretty evil too...

Can you please stop arguing?

Body of Christ.

Body of Christ.

Body of Christ.

No thank you.

Uhhhhh...

Please don’t do this???

Ok, I’ll eat the bread, but I’m not drinking wine.

What do you want me to do with her?

Baby, please just take a sip.

Nope. I don’t like when people drink.

What do you want me to do?

You can have my wine. I’m going to go sit back down. Thank you for making me less evil.

Rose yawned. She stretched her arms and got ready for bed. The moon’s light shone quite brightly that night. She smiled. The moon seemed to also be smiling back at her. Rose tossed, and turned. Why couldn’t she get some sleep? She put on her slippers and left her bedchamber.

The hallways were all calm and quiet. If someone dropped a pin on the floor, Rose thought that she’d be able to hear it. She walked past the dining area and wandered to the side of the castle~ into the storage room. Rose’s wanted to check what was in the strange room. As she moved closer to the door, she thought she had heard someone calling her name.

‘Rose..’.

It was a calm, bewitching call.

Rose moved towards the door, and she had hardly even touched the door~ when it opened to let her in. She walked into the room and looked around. There were so many objects stored. A bunch of old potato sacks, different sized spools with assorted colourful thread, and many piles of dotted, lined & plain fabric.

One covered object caught her eye. In the corner of the storage room, there was a long black cloth that covered one of the objects. Rose rushed over to the object and pulled the cloth aside. She saw a reflection of herself.

Rose stared at her reflection. Then it grabbed her by her throat. And pulled her closer towards the mirror. Rose gasped for air. She tried to pull the dark hands away from her neck. But all her efforts were in vain.

The reflection cackled. It dragged Rose into the mirror. The other Rose stepped out of the mirror. She placed the black cloth back over the mirror. Later, she went to the bedchamber and closed her eyes. She laughed. How glad she was to be back and have a nice bed~ all to herself.

#MIRROR|RORRIM

“No peeking,” she whispered in his ear.

Her blind date waited patiently, blindfold still over his eyes. As he listened closely he could tell that she was slipping out of her dress.

Lifting up his blindfold slightly, he hungrily stared at his date's elegant, naked body. But when his gaze met hers, the last thing he saw was her hair that slithered and hissed like snakes.

#medusa #erotic #horror

"I once knew a man who swore he sold his soul to the devil. Can you believe that?"

Throaty laughter punctuates the rhetorical question. The old man sits in a wheelchair that is as old as me, a worn pillow between him and the fraying vinyl of the seat. He keeps chuckling as he unwraps his McDonalds cheeseburger, plain, no onions, his one eye tracking the movement of the yellow wrapper while his other hides beneath a blue-white cataract.

Wispy white hair, thin, unbrushed and unwashed, pokes its way out from beneath the sides of his black "Veteran" trucker cap. His denim jacket is faded with dirt and memories of better days. It looks like he's been wearing it since before Bon Jovi had a number one hit, complete with pinholes and patches that aren't intended to be decoration. Somehow, though, they still are; half a dozen military unit patches in different colors and from different branches litter his jacket.

He smiles a gap-toothed grin as he takes his first bite of the still-warm cheeseburger. This is our Wednesday routine; on my lunch break, I bring him a sackful of burgers and a Coca-cola. He doesn't care for fries, but the burgers he can actually stretch into a couple of meals, and he doesn't mind them cold. This week, I drop a twenty into his little three-gallon bucket he uses to panhandle. Some Wednesdays, it's the key to a room I'd get him at the Motel 6. Others, it's just a fiver. I don't want him to think I feel too sorry for him. Besides, we have a business arrangement. He tells stories, and I listen.

Every Wednesday, I feed him and we chat. He grabs his bucket and I wheel him over to a shady spot where I can sit on a low wall and listen to his stories. I'm sure some of them are probably even true.

I hope some of them aren't.

I believe he really is a veteran. Like knows like. His demeanor, word choice, and knowledge base are too good to be fake, but I'm no expert. It could all be a carefully constructed fairy tale to earn a few extra dollars from sympathetic strangers. I don't believe that's the case, but if so, I tip my hat to his committal to the role.

Overall though, the man is a mystery, and I am content to let him stay that way.

He doesn't blame his tours for where he is now. The lost leg he left behind in a motorcycle wreck near Miami in the summer of 79. The cancer, though, that he firmly believes is due to his relationship with a foreign agent. Codename: Orange. But he doesn't dwell on it.

I've offered to try to get him into treatment under indigent care. He just shakes his head and refuses to go when it's warm outside. "Talk to me again after the first snowfall," he says and laughs when I bring it up.

I know he has some mental health issues. I know he has some physical health issues, too. But I also know he's lived this way for almost as long as I've been alive, and some people don't want to be saved. So I do the next best thing; I listen.

"The devil, eh?" I ask, biting into my own McDonalds fare. This week, it's a quarter pounder. I don't skip the fries.

He nods. "Yep. Prince of Lies himself." He slurps his Coke, looking over at me. "Do you believe in God, Jack?"

I've told him my name a dozen times. It doesn't matter. To him, I'm Jack.

"Yeah, I do, Chief."

"Just Jon will do, Jack."

"Yes, I do believe in God, Jon."

"Why?"

I take a bite. Chew. Look over at him. His one good eye locks in on mine.

"Why not?" I finally ask in response.

He laughs. "That's cheatin', Jack. But I'll take it."

He reaches for his second burger, and we eat in silence for a few minutes.

"I believe in God because I know the devil is real."

His statement is delivered so matter-of-factly, so absolutely convincingly, that I am struck with a chill that travels down the nape of my neck into the red brick where I sit. That is quite a trick, to be chilled in August.

"How do you know that, Chief?" I slip right back into old habits; he is Chief Warrant Officer Jon Michael Sparks from Carey, Idaho, and once a CWO, always a CWO.

"Because I've seen him, Jack. I saw him with my own two eyes, and I saw the fella he was talking to. I couldn't hear nothin', but I can guess what was up. That same cat the devil was talkin' to, he eased over my way one evening after it was all said and done. Asked me what I seen. What I knew. What I heard."

I notice Jon's hand is shaking a little as he balls up his empty wrapper.

"So, let me get this straight. You saw a guy sell his soul, and you saw the devil, and then this guy came up to you?"

He shakes his head. "No, man. You got the timeline all wrong. See, you know I got a couple of purple hearts, right?" I nod, remembering when he had told me a little about one of them. "Anyway. That first one, I got when I was co-piloting. Bad LZ, bullets zipping, I'm the only bastard catches any. It wasn't bad, it burned, stung for a while, got me a few days back in the city with cold air conditioning and hot food. Nothing major. Anyway, while I was there, this young guy, he comes in, and he's all fucked up. Screaming at night, always sweaty, yelling about how pretty the Morning Star was and shit. Really weird. He had a wound, but I think he was mostly psyche."

At this, he pauses. It's his turn to have a visible shiver, but it's different than the fear response I had earlier. His shiver is memory-based, and then he regains his composure. "Mental stuff in a hospital, man. Scary shit. Anyway. So back then, especially in-country, the main hospital non-critically wounded were in, it was a big bay. More serious or higher ranks, they got private rooms and the good life. Hell, the big bay was plenty good, the AC was reasonably cool and the nurses were plenty cute. Nobody was shooting at us. Life was great for a little while. So everybody is asleep, 'cept for me and this guy. And then there was this . . . wind. Like, hot. Smelled like shit, kinda waved through the air like hot asphalt, yknow? It was weird. And then there he was."

"The devil?"

"Yes, Jack. The Devil. Whispering to this long range recon guy, the one who was spazzing out."

"So what did he look like?"

Jon paused and stared off into fifty years ago.

"He was pretty."

"Pretty?"

"Yeah. Not handsome. Not gruesome. Not, like, Greta Garbo or Farrah Fawcett, but not like Clark Gable, either. He was pretty. Like some kind of . . . I don't know. I don't know. I aint gay or nothin, but he was just beautiful. And terrifying. Because I knew it was wrong, all that prettiness."

As I finished my last fry, my eyes didn't leave his face. "So what happened?"

"They just talked. And then the Devil, he kissed that guy on the forehead. It was strange. And sweet. And scary as fuck."

"You saw the Devil kiss a man on the forehead? Sweetly?" I sipped my drink.

He shifted his gaze to me. Cyclops, regarding Odysseus. At least he wasn't hungry anymore.

"Jack. Yes. And the next night, that soldier, he came up to me. Got real close-like. Started asking me what I'd seen, what I knew. I just shook my head. He told me he'd sold his soul, and that he was scared. He told me he knew I had seen them together."

"Did he threaten you, or anything?"

"No. He laughed. He told me the Devil saw me watching, and that he had a message for me."

"What is that? The message? What did he say?" I couldn't help it. I was fascinated.

"The Devil would be watching me, too."

"Oh?"

"Oh? What the fuck you mean, 'oh'? Aint that some scary shit right there, Jack? Could I not just end this goddamned story right there and it be about enough to have you pee your pants?"

I had to admit, yes, it was, but still. I had questions.

"So did anything happen? After? To you?"

Jon just looks down at his wheelchair. Back up to me. Over to his panhandling bucket.

I feel pretty stupid.

Imagine how I felt later, when I actually googled CWO Jon Michael Sparks on a whim.

Chief was a Huey pilot, alright. Shot down in 1973 in an operation over the Ho Chi Min trail. His door gunner was the only one to make it back home.

To this day, Jon Sparks is officially listed as Missing in Action.

I still take him cheeseburgers on Wednesdays, but we don't talk about religion anymore.

Mostly because I'm pretty sure that the infantryman he told me about wasn't the only one to work a deal.

And / or, maybe Jon is still being watched.

Honestly, I'm afraid to discover how thick the border is between lies and truth.

Whatever side of that line I'm living on, I'm happy.

But I'm not afraid to admit that I've started going back to church.

Especially on Wednesday nights.

Next time you intend to give me your word,

Be sure you’ve spoken, indeed, what I heard.

Because I won’t allow,

Another broken vow,

Complete honesty is always preferred.

#poetry #limerick #lies #brokenpromises #Prose #challenge

Some would say that a feeling doesn’t have a smell. But the fortune tellers would have to disagree. At least those of us who are of true descent. The spirits and magicks that pulse through the wind--the fates and futures that rise and fall like the tides of the very air we breath--can be so chokingly distinct to a Romani, a keeper of destinies.

Still, one must be trained in the ways. To recognize how certain strains of serendipity have a familiar, welcoming spice that tickles the nostrils, while others bring with it a cloud of musky-scented mourning that clings to the lungs and lingers in the clothes.

People bring with them their own kismet, meandering off them like incense. Their moods, hopes, and fears become their own fortune teller that need merely be read by those with a nose to sense it.

I've never liked my nose really--too pointy and small. It's a wonder the insignificant thing can sense anything at all. But it does. More than I want to, that's for sure.

I hold my long hair back with a scarf, tieing it around my head with a knot against the back of my neck. A woman lifts the flap of my tent and enters bringing with her a sweet scent.

As I shuffle the cards the bangles on my wrist clang together like wind chimes singing of the impending storm. Their cold metal against my skin helps ground me. It helps focus my attention on the task at hand instead of the strong sweet odor of deceit that fills my tent and makes my stomach cramp. Deceit tricks me every time. It has an overpowering, sugary aroma that mimics the scent of love and is similar to innocence, yet without the hint of mint.

The woman before me has tight curls that barely meet her bony shoulders. Her gaunt face pulses on the sides like she’s clenching her teeth in time with her wringing hands.

I swallow.

One last attempt to cleanse my aching throat as I finally take my eyes off my client and give all my attention to the cards.

The tips of my fingers confirm the stack is ready and with eyes closed I retrieve the top card.

A metallic zing runs up my hand and I know the reading before I see it. “Reverse nine of wands,” I say.

My voice is huskier from the fire burning in my open mouth. It blazes more raw with each breath.

This card doesn’t tell me anything my sense of smell hasn’t already. “You have a secret you don’t wish to be found out.” We are merely setting boundaries for what is to come. “You are wanting to know if it's too late.”

Even I cannot sense if her husband knows of her actions. The cards must do the rest. They speak to me like the wind whispers to the trees. Like my Mother and Grandmother raised me to smell those around me, they also taught me to listen to the wands-the magic in the cards.

My fingers dance on top of the deck and the top card is harder to read through my touch but I’m certain it’s the right reading. On the table I exhale as I read it. “Upright. Six of wands.”

The air twists from sweet to sour, like milk that has spoiled. I speak swiftly to ease this woman’s dooming fear. “You’re successful in your quest and have overcome the burden of publicity you fear. See how the six of wands has a man with a wreath riding a white horse. The white horse of course represents strength," and purity, but I leave that bit out. "You have shown much strength in this situation and will surely be publicly rewarded for your efforts."

The woman smiles and her hands are finally still. I inhale deeply at the welcoming refreshing scent of ease. Like rain after a fire it soothes my lungs and throat.

A painful shock is sent through my fingers as I brush the top of the deck. The top card is not right. Closing my eyes, I hum without thinking, and my fingers are lead to the card somewhere in the deck that finishes this woman's destiny.

Down toward the end of the pile I retrieve the one card that vibrates through my fingers. I only stop humming when the Queen of wands is upside down on the table, facing me instead of the woman.

"You must beware of selfishness and jealousy."

The woman and I make eye contact and I both see and smell the worry in her face. "The queen of wands, in either position, represents fertility and the feelings emotions and hardships it brings."

The womans dirty brown eyes have lost all the shine of youth. Without looking away from my face they fill with tears.

"This could mean an obstacle will stand in the way of your success. In order to have what you desire you will have to push through this thing, or person, that stands in your way," I cringe at my own words wondering what this woman is planning and what I am leading her to do. With a shake of my head I continue. I don't need to know the detials of her life. It's none of my business. "Just as one pushes through the hardship of labor and delivery."

My smile turns to grimace as the air in the room spoils like rotten fruit. Another tricky emotion, though I’ve had more experience with lust in my tent than deceit.

I don’t process the woman’s thanks, I only hold my breath as best I can to keep from retching. She pays a grateful tip and runs off to make a mess of whatever fate I interpretted for her. I grab at my stomach as soon as she’s left, falling forward onto the table with one fluid sigh of relief.

My head clears with each fresh breath and I remove the scarf from around my head to dab at my sweating brow. The waves in my stomach calm. The flask under my table is half full and I sit up, then tilt my head back to wash it down quickly.

I blame the attacks of scents that woman put me through for why I don’t notice my next client approaching. My senses are burned numb from use and without warning a large man throws open the door flap and enters.

Sounds of laughter from the carnival and screams from the rides make a chill run up my arms. Or perhaps it’s this gentleman’s appearance that puts me on nerve. Or the fact that I can’t smell him at all.

His shape is like an upside down triangle, with wide thick shoulders and a lean waist. His black hair is unkempt, his eyebrows too shaggy to reveal any eyes, and his beard so mangy it screams laziness more than style preference.

I grab a hanky from my belt and blow my nose trying to clear my senses before we begin. “Your fortune awaits, Sir. Please have a seat in my office.”

I wrap my head dress around my head again bringing the length of the scarf down to drape over my shoulder.

Deceit and lust were tricky, but this next scent has me completely baffled. It floats out to me with an edge of warning but of what? I detect the scent of leaves and grass clippings. Anxiety? It's missing the putrid roadkill scent of fear, though it's definitely earthy. It’s nothing like the pleasant sort of dirt smells that accompany carefree moods such as mellow and relaxed. If smells could have images attached to them this one would definitely be that of a worm wriggling in the darkest of soils.

I can't put my finger on it yet there is something familiar about this man's smell. I've encountered it before. The man smiles a toothy grin and many of his remaining teeth are lopsided with brown decay.

I list again the smells I detect. Leaves, grass, earth, and the last is a nutty sort of aroma that could possibly just be something he ate while enjoying the fair.

The man says nothing, only smiles his disgusting smile and breathes a ragged breath that makes him sound like a smoker. Could that be the nuttyness I smell?

“Can I read your fortune for you, Sir? Or perhaps a palm reading?" My voice shakes at the blindness of this conversation. I still have no clue what his intentions or desires are.

“You look too young to be a fortune teller." His voice is more earthy than his scent. "And definitely too pretty to be one."

"You doubt my abilities then? How I'd love to prove them to you. Please, take a seat." My voice rises higher with each word.

A new scent of roses blends with the earthy smell. Confidence. He does not doubt my abilities at all. Rather he is counting on them. What does he want?

The tent flap is opened again and a crow comes swooping in deftly. With the sight of that bird and the smell of this man I, in an instant, realize two things. One, I know exactly where I've smelt this before and two, I am in big trouble. It all clicks. This man is one of Jarku's men, come to kill off the race of fate-readers, and this bird is with them. I was only six years old the last time I saw this bird help Jarku murder my mother. That nutty aroma I remember now is the intent to kill.

Another man steps in as the bird continues to fly at me.

Standing, I knock my chair over and grab a tarot card from the table in one fluid motion. Instead of allowing the ache to creep up my fingers I push it back into the card and it glows a dim wavering blue.

With a flick of the wrist the card goes flying through the air toward the bird and slices into its neck just as it opens its beak to squawk. The bird call is cut short as it falls with a thud to the ground. From the cards lodged position in the dead bird I can make out the five of wands and the blue light goes out.

Both men just stare at the bird while I grab all the cards from the table.

"I actually liked that bird," the new intruder says. He is taller, but just as full around the shoulders. He wears a simple once-white tunic and a leather strap across his body. The men's mouths are alike in every way, except this one is clean shaven and has white thinning hair.

Stuffing the deck into the folds of silk around my belt I grab two cards for each hand. With a step backward I crouch low and fan the cards-one pair of weapons in front of my face and another high behind my head.

“Now, now." Says the second man. "No need to make this difficult, Gypsy.”

I curl my lip at the term. People associate “Gypsy” with thief, someone they can’t trust. The moods in the air swirl around me and I focus on them trying to decipher which ones come from whom. Anticipation from the first man. Impatience, determination, and doubt from the second one before me.

“What does Jarku want?” I say, not moving from my ready stance.

“He merely needs you to do a reading for him”

I sniff. “Liar!” I spin a card toward him, missing his face by only inches.

The first, stockier man whistles then chuckles.

The fruity smell of agitation hits me in the gut and I pull another card from my sash.

“Just come quietly and we promise not to hurt you.”

The air shifts to the scent of brisk spring rivers- they’re ready to pounce and grab. Barely moving my arms I flick all four cards out in front of me. The ache leaves my fingers as the cards soar and I reload. Two of the cards hit their target, the first man’s throat, one right after another they slice his airway and he falls grasping and spluttering.

The bigger taller barrel of a man dodges and I spin all four new tarot cards out at him again. His sword is drawn and he deflects them but the last glowing tarot card knicks him on the cheek and he grunts.

Dabbing at his cheek he looks at the blood on his hands. Vanilla and warm spices fill the air. He’s enjoying this. It’s the challenge he was hoping it would be.

My hands are reloaded and I crouch again speaking back to the cards. The ache is pushed out of my fingers onto them and they glow a brighter blue than before.

He smiles and takes his stance as well. “Jarku won’t mind a small delay. Never said to deliver you alive.”

I try to give a confident smirk of my own but I know the smell of road kill in the air is from my own fear. “I don’t hand out free fortunes,” I say. “I will expect my regular payment for this reading.”

With that I spin my hands in front of me, letting go of the cards faster than I’ve ever released them. He dodges them and flips a small knife from his shoe. I lean just in time to hear it whiz through the scarf on my shoulder.

Reloaded I send two toward his feet and one at his face. His dodging steps are like a dance the way he hops and skips and moves his head away from them. He is drawing closer to me from the movements. His sword cuts through the air so swiftly that he slices the last card in half mid air.

As I’m grappling for more cards his sword comes at me. Now I’m dancing my part, a sideways frantic shuffle, but my arm isn’t quick enough and his blade makes contact. Pain in my arm makes the ache of the cards feel dull. I barely notice though when he comes at me again. I jump backward missing his second blow and have cards in my hand again.

He steps back as he sees my hand full of cards raise. One, two, three cards fly and the second one zips across his ear making blood rain on his neck.

The memory of the card is still on my fingers “King of wands,” I shout. Quickly I reload and crouch. “You're too cocky and impulsive to be a good fighter.” The shake is out of my voice but I reign in my own pride. Lower myself further to the ground like Grandmother taught me.

He growls as he rushes me with sword in both hands overhead. At the last minute I duck and weave out of his way. Just as he rushes by me I take a card and slice it across his back ripping his shirt and slicing skin with the end of the stroke.

The card falls to the ground. “Knight of Wands,” I say. I’m breathing heavy but smile at the appropriateness. “You must watch your temper. The knight of wands relays the loss of power. Turning to anger is the straightest path to weakness.”

He's hunched over after my blow but with a grunt he leads up with his shoulder, swinging his arm which hits me in the chest. I fall backwards from his blow and my cards spill across the dirt floor. I'm scrambling, crawling backwards like a crab as he rises and towers over me.

"Me Mother was a rotten gypsy like you." He wipes at the blood on his face as it drips into his mouth. "Always telling me about my temper."

One more crawl backward and my fingers ache against a card.

"Always telling me what I was feelin' ’fore I said anything."

The card heats, it's in my hand and I hope the glow cannot be seen from his angle.

"I'll be glad when Jarku finishes off your-"

Leading with the top of my hand my movement cuts him short as I swing from behind. The card is wedged between my fingers. With a flick it's sent off, glowing so blue it lights up the entire tent.

At first I sense his relief as he realizes I missed his throat--the death of his comrade moments ago. There isn't a hint of fear in the air as the card cuts through the fabric of his tunic and lodges deep in his chest. The heat of the glowing card makes the flesh it touches burn and the room stinks for different reasons than emotions or destiny. The only mood to be sensed is shock permeating like fresh cut lemons bold and strong.

He falls to his knees as I scramble to my feet.

The card sticking out of him has a man on top of a castle holding a globe. "The two of wands," I whisper. "Your fate looks grim. You've ignored important details in planning your future, making your downfall," he falls forward flat on top of the cards and I jump out of his way. "Inevitable."

I catch my breath as I stare at the mess made from the fight. Escaping the hand of Jarku a second time has me rooted in place shaking at every limb. To think I could do so a third time is foolish. I need to run.

The bird lies with his beak open and stiff. The metallic smell of my revenge fills the room. I bend and retrieve the card sliced in half, the nine of wands with the sick man standing alone. The last one standing, ready for battle, the card speaks to me of resilience and grit. Stepping over the men I say without looking back, "You owe me a new deck of cards."

He felt his whole body, burning with intense heat for her. She turned over and took a deep sigh. He smiled. Then looked at her~ he did not want the night of fun to come to an end any time soon. She was acting so wild, & he wondered what he did to deserve this. His phone pinged. A message from his wife: ‘I’m on my way home, honey.’